(El) Camino a Casa
by SplatDragon
Summary: El Camino a Casa: "The way home", Camino a Casa: "I walk home", "Coco…" Héctor spat a mouthful of saliva on the ground. "I'm… coming home." The train station had to be around here somewhere, surely? Just… just another street or two. "Your papá is coming home..."


_ "To friendship!" _Ernesto had said.

_"I'd move Heaven and Earth for you, _mí amigo." and Héctor would do the same.

_"¡Salud!" _they had clinked their glasses together and, as one (at least, as far as Héctor knew), gulped down their tequila.

_"Just one more night, Hèctor, please?" _Ernesto had pleaded.

Héctor hadn't yet bought his ticket, and he had decided to finally leave with little warning. It wasn't fair to his _hermano _and, besides, he'd never been good at telling him no.

Why not just one more night? Imelda and Coco wouldn't worry, they weren't expecting him for another month, at the least. He'd made his decision so abruptly that he hadn't had the chance to write and, even if he left come morning, he would be home long before they received his letter.

So, with a tired smile, he set down his things and said _"Sí." _

"Héctor? Héctor?"

The man jolted awake, blinking blearily at Ernesto. "_ Sí, _'Nesto?" he slurred.

Ernesto chuckled, shaking his head. "You fell asleep while we were talking, my friend."

"Oh." That.. was bad, wasn't it? _"Lo siento." _

A hand was on his arm, then, helping him to his feet. "No worries, you need to get some sleep. Here, let me help you." Héctor grabbed his forearm, allowing him to pull him up, his legs stiff beneath him.

Hooking his arm over his shoulder, although it was a bit awkward with their height difference, Ernesto helped Héctor to his bed, tugging his shoes from his feet. "You don't look so good, _amigo_."

Héctor squinted up at him, his head aching, each flicker of the candles sending another throb through his skull. "I don't… feel so good." he murmured, eyelids heavy, eyes stinging as sweat dripped into them.

Ernesto frowned, running his hand through his hair, "Ah, my friend, get some sleep. You'll be fine in the morning. Just think, you'll be home with your wife and daughter this time tomorrow."

Despite himself, Héctor couldn't help but to grin. "'m glad… you don't hate me, 'Nesto."

"Go to sleep, Héctor."

And he did.

He woke up he-doesn't-know-how-long later, crying out wordlessly as he curled in on himself, clutching at his lower stomach. '_ ¡Oh Dios mío!_'

His stomach churned, and his throat clenched; Héctor didn't want to wake Ernesto, so he staggered to his feet, grabbing the wall as everything danced around him, his pants uncomfortably wet at the crotch. Whimpers died in his throat, each step sending pain shooting through his stomach, and he only barely made it outside before emptying his stomach on the ground, tears streaming down his face with each stab of pain.

_'Ow, ow, ow,' _

Héctor slumped against the wall, wrapping his arms against his stomach as it continued to hurt, each breath sending shocks of pain through him. _'Parada, por favor, parada,' _

He slumped to the side, spitting out a mouthful of saliva, whimpering. _'Parada, parada, parada,' _his stomach clenched, and he heaved bile on the ground, nothing left in his stomach, _'Basta, por favor, parada.' _

He rested his head on his knees, trembling, occasionally turning his head to spit out a mouthful of saliva. _'Please, god, make it stop.' _

_'... why… am I outside?' _

Héctor must have dozed off, he supposed, because he didn't remember getting out of bed, or coming outside. Didn't remember vomiting or slumping to the ground.

_'Where's 'Nesto?' _

He looked over his shoulder, blinking blearily at the door to the hotel room. Oh. Ernesto must have still been inside, and he didn't want to wake him.

Héctor's stomach clenched, and he twisted, retching fruitlessly—his stomach was empty, but god if it didn't hurt!

_'I was… going to the train station, wasn't I?' _

That was right, he'd been walking out the door. He was going to the train station, he was going to go _home_.

So… where were his things? He looked around, head throbbing with each movement, fingers twitching as he clutched at his stomach. _' _¡Oh Dios,_ that hurts!' _What was wrong with him?

He… he needed to get to the train station. That's where he had been going, right? He just… needed to get his things and get going. He could rest on the train, and he'd feel fine when he got home.

So Héctor stood, having to brace himself against the wall as his head protested the movement, throbbing with each heartbeat, stomach churning. _'Pará, pará, pará,' _He staggered to the door, carefully, slowly, opening it, not wanting to wake Ernesto—had he said goodbye already? Surely he had—glad to see his suitcase and guitar case were within arms' reach.

Stretching to reach them had him gasping, stomach twisting as though grabbed in a fist, _'I just need to get home,' _but he was anything it determined, and he was quick to bring his things outside. He had presents for Imelda and Coco in his suitcase, and his guitar had been a gift from Imelda. He'd never leave it behind.

Which way was the train station, again?

It had been a straight shot from the hotel, hadn't it? But… was it left or right? Or… was it right then straight? Left then straight?

Well, he'd find it eventually. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he hadn't bought his ticket yet. So he could get the next train home from when he got there, although he wanted to get there soon.

_'Coco, darling, your _papá _is coming home_.'

His stomach twisted, and he gagged, doubling over. Héctor wrapped his arm around his stomach, his guitar case pressing uncomfortably against it, retching, only able to bring up saliva. _'Parada, parada, parada.' _Each gag sent a sharp pain through his skull, and he couldn't help but to whimper, _'Why, god, make it stop, _por favor, por favor,'

His throat burned, and his stomach ached from the force of his gagging, but he forced himself to stand, to stagger forward. _'Coco, my darling, … Imelda, _Mí amor _… I'm coming home.' _

"Coco…"

He should have reached the train station, he felt.

"Imelda…"

Héctor spat a mouthful of saliva on the ground.

"I'm… coming home."

The train station had to be around here somewhere, surely? Just… just another street or two.

"Your _papá _is coming home..."

Where was he going?

He was walking somewhere.

His stomach was throbbing, and he must have vomited at some point, as the front of his shirt felt wet against his skin. He kept having to spit, the simple movement of leaning over threatening to take him off his feet.

"C-Coco… 'melda…"

He was going home, wasn't he? Héctor was walking home.

"_Estoy… Estoy camino a casa…" _

"I-Imelda…"

Who… who was Imelda? The name was clinging to him, and he knew her, he _knew _her.

"C-Coco. So-Socorro."

Those names… he knew those names. Who were they? No… who… was that? Those names… he didn't know how, but he knew they belonged to one person.

Héctor's stomach twisted, and he doubled over, heaving.

_'Where… am I going?' _

There were people he needed to get to.

He didn't know who.

He couldn't remember their names.

He couldn't remember how he knew them.

But he knew he needed to get back to them.

Héctor's mouth tasted like metal.

Héctor didn't know _where _he was going.

He didn't know _why _he was going.

But something was pulling at his feet, was pulling at his heart, and he needed to go.

He felt like there should be something in his hands, but trembling fingers clenched on nothing.

_'I'm… on my… way.' _

His feet hurt—why wasn't he wearing shoes?

His head throbbed—had he hit his head?

His stomach twisted—had he eaten something bad?

Héctor stopped, closing his eyes.

He was _so dizzy_, and _so cold,_ although sweat soaked his skin. Where was he? This wasn't Santa Cecilia, and that didn't make sense. He would never leave Santa Cecilia, because… because… because they were there.

He couldn't remember who they were.

Who were they?

Héctor staggered one step, two, and dropped as though he'd been shot.

His long limbs began to convulse, jerking every which way like a marionette with its strings being pulled all at the same time, back arching off the ground. His head cracked against the ground hard enough that the skin split, blood darkening the dirt, fingers clenching and heels digging furrows into the ground. Helpless, nonsense sounds spilled from his throat, animalistic grunts that no human had the right to be able to make.

Foam bubbled from his mouth, spilling down the side of his face, tinted red as he bit his tongue hard enough to split the skin. Urine trickled down his leg, and he voided his bowels, and if he were conscious he would have been humiliated, so it was a mercy that he was unaware, unable to feel the pain or suffer the embarrassment.

When the convulsions finally slowed, he was sprawled in a way that could only be accidental. His breathing was short and shallow, stuttering in his throat, slowing as he twitched weakly, small convulsions that arced through his limbs until, finally, he laid still, covered in vomit, diarrhea, and urine.

_'Co...co…' _

_'I… mel…da…?' _

_'Where… are you?' _


End file.
